


Nothing To Be Thankful For

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Series: Professor Dean Winchester AU [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drinking, F/M, Language, Light Smut, Professor Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just don’t have anything to be thankful for on Thanksgiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Be Thankful For

Two weeks, three days and four hours since your world had come crashing down around you. You still weren’t sure how you’d managed to survive the last couple of weeks. You’d barely held it together, doing everything you possibly could to push yourself until Thanksgiving break, surviving on coffee and two or three hours of sleep a night. You were miserable, more miserable than you had ever been and the only cure was Professor Winchester.

After he’d broken up with you (four words that made bile rise in the back of your throat), you’d waited, praying that it had all been a horrible, horrible mistake and that Dean would come to his senses, call you and beg for your forgiveness, beg you to take him back. But as each new day dawned and another night fell, you became less and less sure that it would happen.

You had cried yourself to sleep almost every night, you’d avoided the History building at all costs, (even going so far as to skip Professor Singer’s class, emailing him that you were sick), you’d even taken on extra shifts at work so you wouldn’t sit in your dorm room going over and over your last conversation until you were nearly sick with regret, you;d pushed yourself until you were half dead and people started to comment on how awful you looked. You didn’t care.

As Thanksgiving drew closer and the prospect of going home to visit your family loomed, you’d felt even more lost. Two days before the holiday you’d called your sister and begged off, making some half-assed excuse that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. When your sister tried to delve further and get to the actual truth, you’d blatantly lied to her and hung up. You just couldn’t deal with it.

You spent Thanksgiving in your room, heating up a frozen dinner you’d found in the freezer of your mini fridge. You had tried watching TV, but that had lasted about ten minutes before you shut it off in frustration, unable to watch the loving couples showcased during the holiday season. Another fifteen minutes passed before you grabbed your keys and shrugged on your heavy coat. You weren’t going anywhere in particular, just out.

You drove aimlessly, no destination in mind. You were on your second or third circle of the university when out of the corner of your eye, you caught the flashing ‘open’ sign in the window of Time Out. You’d heard of it - a popular bar where both students and teachers alike hung out. You turned into the parking lot and parked in a spot close to the door. You sat in the car for so long, staring at the neon sign, that the cold air from outside began to seep in. You almost started the car and left, but the thought of another night alone in your dorm room made you sick to your stomach, so you climbed from the car and pushed open the door to the bar.

You kept your head down as you hurried to a booth in the far corner of the room. You ordered a drink and pushed yourself into the shadows. Maybe you’d get drunk. Do the cliched thing and drown yourself in your sorrows. Maybe it would help you forget how truly miserable you felt for a few hours.

You had just ordered your second drink when you heard the sound of footsteps and someone slid into the seat across from you and set their beer on the table.

You looked up to see Dean’s best friend looking at you, concern written all over his face.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sam said quietly. “How’s it going?”

“Sam, hi,” you mumbled. You squinted at him and shook your head. “Not so good.” You took a deep breath before continuing. “You know what happened?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Dean told me.”

“Of course he did,” you sighed. “I just...I don’t understand, Sam. He said he loves me, but he breaks up with me. He said he’s destroying my life by being with me, but he’s destroying me by pushing me away. Jesus, if he thinks we shouldn’t be together, why the hell was he carrying around an engagement ring?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “An engagement ring?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you replied. “I found it the day before he broke up with me. It fell out of the pocket of his jeans.”

“Dean didn’t buy that, Y/N,” Sam shook his head. “That was mine. I broke up with Cara almost two months ago, and I’d been carrying it around with me. I gave it to Dean and asked him to get rid of it. He shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. He must have forgotten it was there.”

You sighed and put your hands over your face. You could feel the tears getting ready to fall again. “God, I’m such an idiot. Of course he didn’t want to marry me.”

“I can’t tell you whether or not that’s the case, Y/N, but I do know he loves you,” Sam said.

“I’m not sure I believe that anymore,” you murmured.

Sam leaned on the table, his face serious. “He didn’t tell you?” he asked.

“Tell me what?” you muttered, swiping at the seemingly never ending flow of tears.

“Dean met with the independent auditor from Chuck Shurley’s office,” Sam explained. “Gabe, um, Lange, I think. Y/N, he made a very thinly veiled threat to expose you, to ruin everything you’ve worked for. Dean was worried about you, about what it could mean for your future. He mentioned something about a job you’re applying for with Crowley’s Publishing, he wrote a recommendation for you -”

“It’s an internship, not a real job,” you interrupted. “Someone to get coffee and file paperwork.”

“It’s a foot in the door though,” Sam interrupted. “And Dean gave you a glowing recommendation, I’m sure. A recommendation that wouldn’t mean shit if it came out that the professor who wrote it was actually your boyfriend. Something like that could destroy your career before it even started. He didn’t want that for you.”

“So he did this to protect me?” you said quietly. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I took him home from this bar, kept him from drinking himself into a stupor,” he answered. “Once I finally got out of him what he was planning, I tried to convince him that he was making a mistake, that there had to be another way, but he wouldn’t listen to me. The only thing he could focus on was you, keeping you from getting hurt, keeping your future secure. He didn’t give a shit that he was tearing himself apart.” Sam brushed a hand through his long hair and glanced toward the bar and the woman behind it. She smiled his direction and held up a beer bottle. He nodded and held up two fingers.

He returned his attention to you. “Have you seen him?” Sam asked.

“No, not since he...um…” you stammered. “No, no I haven’t.”

“He’s not doing so great,,” Sam muttered. You were interrupted by the bartender setting two beers on the table. To your surprise, she leaned over and kissed Sam, then whispered quietly in his ear. His big hand curled around her waist, then he nodded at her, brushed her hair from her face and pulled her down to place a kiss to her lips. She smiled tenderly at him before walking away.

You raised your eyebrows, the question obvious. Sam chuckled low in the back of his throat.

“She owns the bar,” he said, in way of explanation, a smile on his face. “Look, Y/N, Dean loves you. God, does he love you. I couldn’t even get him to come over today and he refused to go see his Aunt Ellen. He said he didn’t have anything to be thankful for, so he spent the holiday at home, moping. He’s hurting, just as much as you are. This hasn’t been any easier on him than it has been on you. Try to remember that, okay?” He pushed himself out of the booth and patted you on the arm. “Happy Thanksgiving, Y/N.”

You sat in the booth, sipping your beer, watching Sam with the bartender, laughing, smiling, every so often pressing a quick kiss to her lips when she managed to come close to him, which was quite often. Your heart ached with loss and you had to bite your lip to hold back the tears as you watched them. When you knew you couldn’t the grief any longer, you dropped some cash to the table and hurried out the door.

You sat in your car, shivering with cold, for nearly ten minutes until the air flowing from the vents started to blow warm. Your brain was churning through one thought over and over, examining it from every angle. Decision made, you put the car in gear and turned it toward Dean’s house.

You drove past, slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through a window, something, anything. But every blind and curtain was drawn and his car was in the dark garage. You slowed nearly to a stop, rolling slowly past the front of the house, but you didn’t see anything. Ashamed of yourself for your stalking behavior, you turned the corner, intent on heading back to your dorm. Instead, you drove around the block and pulled to a stop, parking in your usual spot.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed open your car door and hurried through the streets to Dean’s. You could hear music as you opened the back gate and stepped into the yard, loud, classic rock, the bass rumbling through the house. The table on the back patio was littered with beer bottles and several half full glasses, along with books stacked haphazardly on the table as well as the chairs. You couldn’t see any lights in the kitchen, though it looked like there was a lamp burning in the living room.

Out of force of habit, you slipped your key in the lock on the back door, but removed it after a brief hesitation. You weren’t his girlfriend anymore, the privilege of walking in uninvited no longer belonged to you. It occurred to you that you should probably return the key. You ran a hand through your hair, wondering what you were doing here, what kind of fresh torture you were trying to put yourself through. You needed to turn around and leave, get back in your car and go back to the dorm, try to forget that Professor Winchester had ever been a part of your life. Instead, you raised your hand and knocked lightly on the door.

You weren’t even sure that he would hear it, not over the music playing inside. A minute passed, then two and you had just decided to leave when the patio light came on and the door opened.

Dean stood in front of you dressed in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. His hair was standing up in spikes all over his head and he was holding a bottle of beer in one hand. He squinted at you, confused and silent for nearly thirty seconds before he finally spoke.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” he murmured. His words were slightly slurred, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Are you drunk?” you asked, surprised. You’d never seen Dean drunk before.

“Seemed like a good way to spend the holiday,” he said in way of explanation. “Now answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“I talked to Sam,” you said.

“Great,” Dean muttered, turning and walking away, leaving the door wide open. “What did he tell you?” He stopped in front of the refrigerator and yanked open the door. He took out a beer, popped off the top and raised it to his lips.

You stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind you, leaning against it. You watched as Dean slammed the fridge door closed, turned and stumbled toward the living room. You followed him, stopping in the empty space between the kitchen and living room. Dean dropped to the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table, a bag of chips and several empty bottles falling to the floor. He ignored the mess, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at you. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” he grumbled.

“How much have you had to drink?” you asked, glancing around the room at the mess. You’d never seen his house look like this, he usually kept it very neat and tidy.

He took a deep breath before he spoke. “I think you need to go. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Dean, please,” you whispered. “Don’t...don’t push me away. Just tell me why you didn’t tell me about the independent auditor and what he said to you.”

“Goddamn Sam and his big mouth,” Dean muttered. There was a pause as he seemed to contemplate what he was going to say, then he took a long swallow from the beer bottle. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet that it was barely audible over the sound of the music pouring from his stereo. “I told you, Y/N, this is the best thing for both of us. I can’t be responsible for ruining your future, for taking everything away from you. I cannot do that. I guarantee you that is what will happen if we’re together.” He rubbed his hand over his neck, a telltale sign of his anger and frustration. “Now, please, please, just go.” He squeezed the beer bottle so tightly that you thought it would break from the pressure.

You considered it, in fact you stood up to leave, to walk out the door and out of his life, just like he’d asked. But as you moved to leave, you heard it, a quiet sigh or maybe it was a moan of protest or maybe it was just your imagination, not that it even mattered anymore, you needed him, you loved him and he needed you and loved you and you were not going to walk out that door without proving it to him, proving it to both of you, proving that this was the most important thing in the world to you.

You turned and practically flung yourself at him, your arms going around his neck, your lips crashing into his, pushing him back into the couch. His hands were on your hips and at first he was pushing you away, trying to get you off of him, muttering that you needed to leave, that it was over, that you shouldn’t be doing this, but you just kept kissing him, not ready to give up, not ready to walk away.

“Please, Dean, don’t do this,” you murmured. “I love you. You can’t do this to us, you can’t let this go. Please.”

Dean’s arms slid around your waist, crushing you to his chest, desperately kissing you. He was moaning low in the back of his throat, the tears sliding down his face mingling with yours. His hands moved from your back to tangle in your hair, holding you to him as the kiss deepened. He pushed at the heavy coat you wore, shoving it off and to the floor, before lowering you to the couch, pulling you beneath him.

Every touch was like an electric spark igniting your skin, every kiss sending you into a swirling vortex of emotion. You were both murmuring, soft, quiet words that didn’t really have any meaning, they were meant to comfort and soothe the pain both of you were both feeling.

You were so completely lost in Dean that you weren’t even sure how the two of you ended up with your naked bodies tangled together, your clothes discarded in a pile on the floor. His hand was between your legs, stroking you, touching you, his fingers sliding inside you, caressing you. You were moaning, undulating against his hand, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He pushed open your legs, pulling one around his waist, the head of his cock brushing over your clit as he moved to enter you, drawing a loud gasp from you.

Dean rocked his hips, tight, quick thrusts that filled you perfectly, his mouth never leaving yours, kissing you over and over. Your wrapped both legs around his waist, your hips rising to meet his, the new angle causing him to hit your sweet spot with every thrust forward. You were gasping, a stream of nonsense flowing from your mouth until the intensity of the orgasm cut off the sounds falling from your lips.

You were just coming down from the high you’d hit when Dean abruptly pushed himself off of you, stumbling clumsily to his feet. He grabbed his sweatpants, shoving his legs into them before crossing the room to stand in front of his fireplace. He planted his hands on the mantle, leaning over, a grimace on his face.

“Damn it, Y/N,” he growled. “The way you make me feel, the things you do to me.” His knuckles were white where he was gripping the mantle, his throat working as he struggled to speak. “You need to go -” He hitched in a deep, heaving breath. “Please, just go, we can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

You grabbed a shirt from the pile on the floor, yanking it over your head. “I don’t understand,” you whispered.

“Don’t you get it? It was always just me, Y/N,” Dean said, not looking at you. “I was the only one in danger of losing anything, the only one that could be hurt. But now, that possibility exists for you and I refuse to let that happen. I _will not_ let that happen. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I’m doing this because I love you, because I want the best for you. Please try to understand that. Being with me is going to poison you, destroy you. And I will do everything I can to keep that from happening.” He pushed himself upright, rubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the stairs. “Do me a favor and lock the door behind you when you leave.”

You watched him as he walked up the stairs, the muscles in his back tense and taut. His bedroom door slammed, followed by an unearthly scream and a crash of something hitting the floor and breaking. You flinched at the sound. You wanted to follow him, to go to him and pull him into your arms and hold him until you both felt better. But instead you put on the rest of your clothes, pulled on your heavy coat and hurried from his house, nearly blinded by your tears.

You barely remembered driving back to your dorm, it was a blur, done strictly by rote memory. You let yourself in, the silence of a nearly empty building enveloping you. It was almost a comfort. It wasn’t until you were back in your room, peeling off your clothes, that you realized you had mistakenly put on Dean’s t-shirt rather than your own. That brought another fresh round of tears.

You paced the room, restless, your mind churning, turning over everything that had happened, every word that had been said. You were going to fix this, you didn’t know how, but you were going to fix it.

When you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer, you climbed into your bed, pulled the covers up and the collar of Dean’s shirt over your nose, inhaling deeply. This had been the worst Thanksgiving ever.

 


End file.
